Playing for Pizza

Chapter 16

Mercifully, the Gazzetta di Parma did not mention the game. Sam read the sports page early Monday morning and for once was happy to be lost in the land of soccer. He flipped through the paper while parked on the curb outside the Hotel Palace Maria Luigia waiting for Hank and Claudelle Withers from Topeka. He’d spent last Saturday showing them the highlights of the Po valley, and now they wanted a full day seeing more.

He wished he could’ve spent Sunday with them as well, and skipped Milan.

His cell phone rang. “Hello.”

“Sam, it’s Rick.”

Sam skipped a beat, thought some terrible things, then said, “What’s up?”

“Where are you?”

“I’m a guide today. Why?”

“You gotta minute?”

“No, as I said, I’m working now.”

“Where are you?”

“Outside the Hotel Palace Maria Luigia.”

“Be there in five minutes.”

Minutes later Rick turned the corner, running hard and sweating as if he’d been at it for an hour. Sam slowly removed himself from the car and leaned against a fender.

Rick pulled alongside, stopped on the sidewalk, took a couple of deep breaths, and said, “Nice car.” He pretended to admire the black Mercedes.

Sam had little to say, so he said, “It’s a rental.”

Another deep breath, a step closer. “Sorry about yesterday,” Rick said, eyeball-to-eyeball with his coach.

“It might be a party for you,” Sam growled. “But it’s my job.”

“You have the right to be pissed.”

“Oh thank you.”

“It won’t happen again.”

“Damned right it won’t. You show up again in bad shape and I’ll bench your ass. I’d rather lose with Alberto and a little dignity than lose with some prima donna with a hangover. You were pretty disgusting.”

“Go ahead. Unload. I got it coming.”

“You lost more than a game yesterday. You lost your team.”

“They weren’t exactly ready to play.”

“True, but don’t pass the buck. You’re the key, whether you like it or not. They feed off you, or at least they did.”

Rick watched a few cars pass, then backed away. “I’m sorry, Sam. It won’t happen again.”

“We’ll see.”

Hank and Claudelle emerged from the hotel and said good morning to their guide. “Later,” Sam hissed at Rick, then got in the car.

Gabriella’s Sunday had been as disastrous as Rick’s. In the final performance of Otello, she had been flat and uninspired, according to her own critique, and, evidently, according to the audience as well. She reluctantly explained things over a light lunch, and though Rick wanted to know if they had actually booed her again, he did not ask. She was cheerless and preoccupied, and Rick tried to lighten her mood by describing his pathetic game in Milan. Misery loves company, and he was certain his performance was much worse than hers.

It didn’t work. Halfway through the meal she informed him, sadly, that she was leaving in a few hours for Florence. She needed to go home, to get away from Parma and the pressure of the stage.

“You promised to stay another week,” he said, trying not to sound desperate.

“No, I must go.”

“I thought you wanted to see a football game.”

“I did, but now I don’t. I’m sorry, Rick.”

He stopped eating and tried to appear supportive, and nonchalant. But he was an easy read.

“I’m sorry,” she said, but he doubted her sincerity.

“Is it Carletto?”

“No.”

“I think it is.”

“Carletto is always there, somewhere. He’s not going away. We’ve been together too long.”

Exactly, much too long. Dump the creep and let’s have some fun. Rick bit his tongue and decided not to beg. They had been together for seven years, and their relationship was certainly complicated. Wedging into the middle of it, or even working the edges, would get him burned. He inched his plate away and folded his hands. Her eyes were wet, but she was not crying.

She was a wreck. She had reached the point onstage where her career was teetering on the brink. Rick suspected Carletto offered more threats than support, though how could he ever know for sure?

And so it ended like most of the other quick romances he’d botched along the way. A hug on the sidewalk, an awkward kiss, a tear or two from her, good-byes, promises to call, and, finally, a fleeting wave of the hand. As he watched her disappear down the street, though, he longed to race after her and beg like a fool. He prayed she would stop, and quickly turn around, and come running back.

He walked a few blocks, trying to knock off the numbness, and when that didn’t work, he changed into running gear and jogged to Stadio Lanfranchi.

The locker room was empty, except for Matteo the trainer, who did not offer a massage. He was sufficiently pleasant, but something was missing from his usual jovial self. Matteo wanted to study sports medicine in the United States and for this reason gave Rick loads of unwanted attention. Today the kid was preoccupied and soon disappeared.

Rick stretched out on the training table, closed his eyes, and thought about the girl. Then he thought about Sam, and his plan to catch him early before practice and, tail wagging, try once more to repair the damage. He thought about the Italians and almost dreaded the cold shoulders. But as a race, they were not prone to keep their feelings bottled up, and he figured that after a few testy encounters and harsh words they would all hug and be pals again.

“Hey, buddy,” someone whispered and jolted him from his zone. It was Sly, wearing jeans and a jacket and headed somewhere.

Rick sat up and dangled his feet off the table. “What’s up?”

“You seen Sam?”

“He’s not here yet. Where you going?”

Sly leaned on the other training table, folded his arms, frowned, and in a low voice said, “Home, Ricky, I’m headed home.”

“You’re quitting?”

“Call it whatever. We all quit at some point.”

“You can’t just walk out, Sly, after two games. Come on!”

“I’m packed and the train leaves in an hour. My lovely wife will be waiting at the airport in Denver when I get there tomorrow. I gotta go, Ricky. It’s over. I’m tired of chasing a dream that’ll never happen.”

“I think I understand that, Sly, but you’re walking out in the middle of a season. You’re leaving me with a backfield in which no one runs the forty in under five seconds, except me, and I’m not supposed to run.”

Sly was nodding, his eyes glancing around. He’d obviously hoped to sneak in, have a few words with Sam, then sneak out. Rick wanted to choke him because the thought of handing off to Judge Franco twenty times a game was not appealing.

“I got no choice, Rick,” he said, even softer, even sadder. “My wife called this morning, pregnant and very surprised to be pregnant. She’s fed up. She wants a real husband, at home. And what am I doing over here anyway? Chasing girls in Milan like I’m still in college? We’re kidding ourselves.”

“You committed to play this season. You’re leaving us with no running game, Sly. That’s not fair.”

“Nothing’s fair.”

The decision was made, and bickering wouldn’t change anything. As Yanks, they’d been forced together in a foreign land. They had survived together and had fun doing so, but they would never be close friends.

“They’ll find somebody else,” Sly said, standing straight, ready to bolt. “They pick up players all the time.”

“During the season?”

“Sure. You watch. Sam’ll have a tailback by Sunday.”

Rick relaxed a little.

“You coming home in July?” Sly asked.

“Sure.”

“You gonna try out somewhere?”

“I don’t know.”

“You get to Denver, give me a call, okay?”

“Sure.”

A quick manly hug, and Sly was gone. Rick watched him dart through the side door, and he knew he would never see him again. And Sly would never again see Rick, or Sam, or any of the Italians. He would vanish from Italy and never return.

An hour later, Rick broke the news to Sam, who’d had a very long day with Hank and Claudelle. Sam actually threw a magazine against the wall while unloading the expected stream of profanities, and when he settled down, he said, “You know any running backs?”

“Yes, a great one. Franco.”

“Ha-ha. Americans, preferably college players who run real fast.”

“Not right offhand.”

“Can you call your agent?”

“I could, but he hasn’t been real prompt returning my calls. I think he has unofficially dumped me.”

“You’re on a roll.”

“I’m having a very good day, Sam.”